I've gotten quite a few questions about what a long run is like, so I thought I do a quick post on it. That said, I'm certainly not an expert (or even a very good) runner. There are a number of things I'm sure I'm doing wrong (or could improve upon), so please do not take my word as gospel. Likewise, if I'm missing something or you have a helpful trick/tidbit to share, leave it in the comments section! I'd love to hear your thoughts. PRE-RUNThe fun starts on Friday night. Anytime I have a long run on Saturday (I consider anything longer than 16 miles to be a "long run"), I try to eat a substantial dinner that is heavier in carbs than any other meal that week. Runner's World just posted a great pasta and avocado recipe which I've used the past few weeks. I load up on water during the day (no alcohol, especially in the summer months) and try to get to bed around 9pm. Laying out my clothes is helpful so I'm not fumbling in the dark come morning. THE RUNThe alarm goes off at 3:40am. After applying Body Glide to every imaginable crevice, I'm downstairs by 4:00. I eat a small bowl of steel cut oats with one tablespoon of almond butter and a dollop of raspberry jam. I eat first since I want the food to settle, usually about an hour before the run starts. I pack:Fluids: 55 oz of water in my Osprey pack, an additional 32 oz of bottled water, 12 oz of Gatorade, a protein/juice blend from The Juice Standard to consume immediately post-run, and watermelon juice to sip on for the ride home. (Aside: Watermelon has so many amazing properties...it should be a staple in everyone's diet. I'm going to write a poem about watermelon one day.) This amount may seem excessive but remember, I'm running in full sun in July in Las Vegas. It's 95 degrees by 8am. I've experienced dehydration before and would do anything to avoid that misery. I'd rather bring too much than not enough. Unless someone wants to set up little aid stations for me on the Loop, I'm going to tote around over 100 oz of fluid. It's kind of my security blanket. Also included: a little tub of cut watermelon (ah, that magical fruit again!), a bag of sea salt, 2-3 gels, sunscreen, a visor, wallet, keys, music (iPod shuffle), Garmin, Body Glide, and a towel soaking in ice water.

I realize this is a terrible picture - not everything is visible, but it was taken at 3:54am. I'm just happy I was able to operate my phone at that hour.

I'm out the door by 4:45am and arrive at the parking lot just after 5, as the sun breaks over the horizon. This is my favorite part of the run: the quiet few minutes before it starts. It's so lovely and peaceful. Makes me believe greatness is possible. Questions on my mind: will my knee hold up? Will I see any animals? How many cyclists are going to piss me off?Miles 1-7.7 are equally amazing and awful. The park doesn't open until 6am, so I'm guaranteed solitude from cars and cyclists for the first hour. It's also cooler since the path draped in the mountain's shadow. Little animals are still out and about, so it's not uncommon to rabbits and coyotes. I tried once to count the rabbits (to tell Scotty later), but had to stop after fifteen. They really do multiply like, well, rabbits. The awful part? The first sevenish miles are mostly uphill. Tough, calf-burning, oxygen-gasping hills. There are moments when I wonder if I'm still moving forward. Overlook Ascent signals the best part of the run is about to begin; miles 7.7 to 12 are my least remembered but most enjoyable. It's a lot of downhill flying. Running is just controlled falling, remember? This is when I try to practice good form and fast feet. I'm not breaking any land-speed records, but it's a incredibly sensation to zoom down literally as fast as my feet will take me. Mile 12: Kim hits a wall.

The fun train has ended. I'm off the Loop, merging onto to Hwy 159. This is horrible for several reasons: the sun burns down, the cyclists whiz by, and I am trekking uphill again. I start my "Red Rock Shuffle" back to the car, dodging bikes and cars as they come within inches. At this point, my water is mostly gone and I can feel the salt crusted on my face. I mean, this is no Badwater shoes-melting-on-the-pavement-hot, but it sucks. Big time. Mile 14.5: MY CAR! I fight the voice in my head telling me to jump in my car and take off, never looking back. Unfortunately, there are still 5.5 miles to go, so no dice. I can't leave yet. I refill my pack with cold water, towel off (ahhh! bliss!) and have a few quick bites of watermelon. If I feel really thirsty or sluggish, I'll drink a quick Gatorade and add salt to the watermelon. Salt may be a strange thing to eat at this point, considering how much is in the media about the dangerous affects of sodium, but for runners, salt lost through sweating is a real concern. Attempting to replenish fluids without additional sodium can result in hyponatremia, a potentially lethal condition. Overconsumption of water can actually cause blood sodium levels to plummet if the kidneys fail to compensate, causing cells to swell and retain fluid. This is why many ultras require weight checks at aid stations; if you gain weight during a long run, there's a good chance you are overhydrating. Too much swelling can affect brain cells, causing confusion, disorientation, and sometimes, even death. Yikes. It's not something I'm especially concerned about (particularly because doing an easy 20 is nothing compared to say, 100 miles) but it is something to be aware of, especially in high heat. I don't want to dehydrate OR overhydrate - both can be equally dangerous. I'm still experimenting, so each run is a chance to practice. Okay, enough salt talk. Back to the grind. The rest of the run is a "chipper" - just gotta take it piece by piece. I know by mile 17.25 I can turn around and head back to the car. Mile 18 is only 2 miles from being done, and mile 19? Sheesh, it's one more stinkin' little mile. Anyone can run a mile. Or at least, these are the things I tell myself. Sometimes it's as simple as "Run to that pole. Run to the next pole. Hey look! There's another pole! Try to get to that one, too..." Just keep chipping until...DONE.RECOVERYI drink my protein shake as soon as I'm able to rip off the water pack and stretch a little. At about 250 calories, it's made with spirulina, a complete plant-based protein that will help with muscle repair. Better, it's cool and refreshing (despite its odd teal coloring.) After I get home, I tell the guys about my run and try to recount for Scotty all the critters I saw. I shower and get an ice bath ready. I can usually handle about 10-12 minutes in the tub with 2 10-pound bags of ice. It's miserable, yes, particularly the first two minutes, but it helps so much to push the lactic acid out of the muscles, thereby decreasing soreness. Consequently, it's worth it. I also sip on a cup of tea to stay warm(er) and wear a ski hat to prevent more heat loss. Funny how I go from too hot to too cold. It's just never the right temperature...I struggle with eating the day of a long run. I think my stomach is convinced we were fleeing from a hungry bear, so the whole "fight-or-flight" survival mechanism, which shunts blood away from my internal organs to the extremities, takes a little time to turn off. I don't feel any hunger most of the day, and eating actually causes physical pain; once I ate a piece of toast and immediately doubled over in pain. I've learned to stick with small bites of soup (southwestern black bean is my favorite) and bananas for the first six to eight hours post-run. It's gotten to the point where I actually wake up on Saturdays, craving those foods now. It's weird to think about dreaming about a bowl of hot soup at 10am on a Saturday morning in July (in the desert, no less), but do what works for you. We all have our "things." I also make sure to wear compression socks for the first six to eight hours as well. If I'm staying home, I'll wear the full-on green ones that go from toe to knee. If I have to assimilate back into the real world where people don't count coyotes or swear at cyclists, I'll just wear the compression calf sleeves. I've learned these can be easily concealed under a maxi dress. I've worn them to toddler birthday parties, a baby shower, a hair appointment, and most recently, a trip to the mall with friends. A DVF wrap dress looks smashing when paired with compression sleeves. I apply Neosporin to all the places I failed to Body Glide properly and call it a day. The long run is over for the week - celebrate!Ironically, the body parts that seem to be bothering me the most lately? Right on my shoulder blades, where my hydration pack hits. Miles and miles of it jostling on my back have caused two small rubbed areas, red and chafed, to develop. It looks almost as though wings are about to sprout. That's not the case, but it certainly would make my life easier. :-) Any helpful tips of your own? Let us know -- comment below!

I think there's a book in that title. It might be one of the most bizarre phrases I've ever typed.

Regardless, it's been my Thursday morning for the past few months. Speed work, that is.

So you are probably thinking, "There she goes again, talking about these running terms that I don't understand." I find myself doing this quite frequently these days - I told Brian a whole story about taper madness and fresh legs v. dead legs, and he just sat there looking at me, blank-faced. When I finally got to the punchline, gleefully punctuating various parts of my tale with hearty laughter, he responded in a flat voice, "I have no idea what you just said," and walked away.

Now that we are all on the same page, you may recall I started speed work last fall in preparation for the full marathon. My first attempt was nothing to write home about. Chained to the treadmill, I gasped, wheezed, and clawed my way to the end of seven agonizing miles, walking at various periods and cursing everything about running, myself, my shoes, and the wretched gym that surrounded me.

During that miserable workout, a certain Academy-award winning actor walked past me. We made eye contact and he gave me this face that said, "Aw. Poor chubby girl. Running too fast."

I don't want to name him but let's just say, I don't think he's leaving Las Vegas anytime soon. I mean, if he did, he might have to hop a flight and it just might be Con Air. I know he appreciates his privacy and I'd certainly hate to have a face/off with him. One might argue he's a bit of a national treasure, so let's give the guy some space, okay? He likes to workout and deserves a bit of personal solitude.

(Btw, yes, we were all really excited when we first saw him at the gym. Brian once even stood behind him in line at the cafe and recommended a smoothie to him. [I heard that and was like, "What?! How do you know he likes pineapple?? I don't think you should talk to the famous people!"] It was cool seeing him the second, third, and fourth time, too. And then, after awhile, you realize he's just a person too and probably doesn't like fame all that much. I mean, you can't go anywhere without someone recognizing you or staring. Heavy lies the crown.)

Back to my story. Speed work eventually got easier, I got stronger, and this person - let's just call him Mr. C - was no where to be found throughout the fall months. Glorious. I started speed work again in the winter to prep for the Summerlin half and had no problems. I found my miles growing, my speed accelerating, and at times, it felt like I was flying. Speed work was becoming one of my favorite workouts, ever! I could barely stop smiling as I ran. Weeeeee!

Until two weeks ago.

The plan in front of me told me to warm up for a mile, run 5 miles at a 8:06 mile, and then cool down for a mile. (technically this is a tempo run, but let's not split hairs). 8:06 is fast for me - I'm no cheetah. More of a tenacious mountain goat, really. This was really pushing it, but I was ready. After all, I had just completed 5 miles at 8:13 the week before with zero issues. I was in the zone! I was ready!

I almost passed out on mile 4.

Like, shaking, numb arms, light-headed dizziness. The gym turned into a sauna within seconds and I found myself inexplicably reaching for the STOP button. I never reach for the stop button. A quick self-diagnostic check reveal my legs were fine, my back felt fine, and my feet were okay. The only thing I couldn't do was breath. Just a minor thing. Who really needs oxygen anyways?

I squeaked out the last few miles at a disappointing 8:34 pace, confused and concerned. And then, in a moment of sheer irony, I thought, "It would be really funny if Mr. C was here" just as he walked by.

I actually looked around the room for cameras, thinking I was being punked.

The following week, same story. Struggling to breath on mile 4. Drop my pace slower and slower. Had to hit the stop button twice. And then - AGAIN - he walked by again. Same track suit, same iPhone, same look of pity from so many months ago. He was probably wondering why that chubby girl keeps torturing herself on the same treadmill, week after week.

Whatever, Mr. C. Mind your own business.

By now, this whole situation had become a running joke among my friends. Several people were in the cafe while I was running and managed to snap a picture of him. They sent it to me with the caption, "It's a good thing you left when you did." I replied, "OH I KNOW. STILL HERE. STILL RUNNING. CURSE HIM!!!"

It's not like I'm starstruck and get nervous by him. It's not like he's even talking to me. It just seems that whenever he's in the building, I can't freaking run. It's a bizarre coincidence I'm pinning all on him (not me!) and it's making me CRAZY.

(one could reason that 5 8-minute miles in a row are a bit of a stretch for my level of fitness, but then we would lose the lovely narrative quality of this story, right? So just go with me.)

Today, I changed it up. It was, after all, my last speed workout before the half marathon next week. I had one last chance to get it right and nail those 8 minute miles. I decided to pull a fast one on old Mr. C and go LATER than usual to the gym. See, he's usually there earlier; maybe if I sauntered in around 10:30, I'd avoid another bad workout. I patted myself on the back for my clever thinking.

And two minutes into my warmup, guess who walked by?

Bloody hell.

Instead of freaking out, I channeled my inner Scott Jurek and remembered what he told me: dig deep. (and by the way, why can't HE workout at our gym? Now that would be inspirational!) I watched Mr. C mosey down the aisle, wearing oversized sunglasses and his black and orange track suit, and told himself, this doesn't matter. His presence doesn't matter. He's nothing but a ghost (rider)to me. I AM BIGGER THAN THIS.

It worked out just dandy. I got my miles in, didn't drop my speed, and never touched that nasty little STOP button. Kim for the win!

While I'm pretty sure this issue has been put to bed, my only concern is next weekend. I can already picture me lining up in the 1:50 corral at the Summerlin half starting line, only to turn around and find myself staring at him.

Looking for a transcendental experience? Run at night. in the dark, cool streets of Summerlin, rocking out to some 80s tunes, I think I saw God. #marathontraining #eyeofthetiger #punchdrunkonendorphins #hashtagsaresilly

(hash tags are silly, no? I still don't quite understand them.)

As it turns out, I was not having some spiritual exposure to a higher power. I was just a goofy runner in bright green compression socks, high on caffeine and rapidly overheating.

Green socks, yo

Let me set the scene: it was my first 14 mile run. At night. This would officially mark my longest run to date. In the past two weeks, I had done a 10-miler and a 12-miler with zero problems. With the Red Rock Twilight 1/2 Marathon coming up at the end of September, I wanted to fold in a few night runs, just to make sure I (and my stomach) were ready.

Hoo boy. I should put "ready" in quotes.

I followed the instructions to a tee. Light meal at 4:00pm. A banana and 8oz of water at 6:00pm. (Brian sat next to me on the couch, snacking on deep dish Pizza Hut pizza. Pepperoni. Oh, the torture). One Gu and a half-cup of coffee at 7:15. As I tied, double-tied, then triple-tied my laces (over and over and over again...long distance running seems to bring out my compulsions), I felt...great. Fantastic, in fact. I was going to rock this run. My head buzzed a little, but I thought it was just anticipation.

My normal pace is between 9:30 and 10:00 minutes. (slow, I know. You fast runners out there, just work with me, okay?) Anything over that usually means I'm going uphill. Anything faster means I'm going downhill or running away from a dog.

My first mile (uphill, nonetheless)?

9:05. Whoops.

But I felt great! High! Amazing! I rocked out to some new songs on the playlist and charged up hills, darted around sprinklers, and danced over curbs. I even texted a few friends. Texting while running - is there anything more hubris-tic?

By mile 6, my overuse of energy was starting to be felt. Mile 8 found me pulling from some reserves, but I reasoned that I was almost done. By mile 10, I was pretty much done, but I still had enough energy to text Brian and let him know I was on my way home. I cruised through miles 11-13 and coasted home. Done! Legs are tired, my tummy hurt a little bit, but I had finished! In a respectable 10:05 pace. 1,883 calories burned. Boo-ya.

My first indication that something was wrong happened when I caught sight of my face in the bathroom mirror. It was ghostly white. I chugged a glass of Gatorade and shook it off. After my shower, I dried my hair quickly and planned to grab a quick snack (not pizza) on the couch before going to bed.

Which is when the unfortunateness happened.

It was as though a giant creature just crawled into my abdomen. I could actually see movement in there, like an alien baby had just birthed itself. The cramping in my stomach was debilitating. I never got to the kitchen for a snack but decided to sit on the couch and wait it out for a bit. Sitting quickly turned into laying, and before I knew it, I was clutching a pillow and moaning. After an hour of writhing in the fetal position, I though I should move this party upstairs. Except when I attempted to traverse the first step, dizziness, heat, nausea, and blackness hit my head all at once. Considering passing out is one of my greatest fears in the world (and we have hard tile, people. Head injury anyone?) I dropped to my knees and immediately crawled back to the couch. And just in case you are wondering, Brian was watching me with a mixture of confusion and concern through all of this. I didn't know if I should drink water, throw up, or eat something. He just sat there, patting my leg, until I told him to stop because the motion was making me nauseous.

After another hour (it was creeping past midnight), I attempted the stairs again. Crawling, I made it. But when I put my toothbrush in my mouth (dental hygiene is always a concern, regardless of my mental/physical state), the blackness came yet again. All I remember is hearing Brian say "That's not going to happen tonight" as he set my toothbrush on the counter while I collapsed in the closet. Yet another hour passed before I limped into bed, exhausted and still not sure what was wrong with me.

The stomach cramping lasted until 3am. I managed to get several sips of water and a few crackers to stay down. By Sunday morning, the whole experience was like a bad dream. I felt tired but not exhausted. I ate several small meals throughout the day and everything stayed where it was supposed to.

After an analysis at boot camp this morning, the consensus was that the coffee messed with my digestive system (the Gu had caffeine in it, too - double whammy). Also, drying my hair after my shower heated, not cooled, my body and I quickly descended into runner's stomach cramping madness. Oh man, I do not want to experience any level of that again.

Reinier told me marathon training is all about learning about yourself and your limits. I think on Saturday night, I found mine. I may be grumpy but I'm not giving up. I'll figure out this running thing one day. Just hopefully by November 17.

Editor's note: In honor of my one year anniversary, I thought I'd dedicate an entire week of entries about running. As many of you may remember, I started running as a way to cope with my dad's untimely passing in June 2011. What I've found, however, surprised even me. Running is not only a great way to handle my grief, but it's become my natural stress reliever, my form of meditation, and has introduced me to some of the kindest, neatest people I've ever met. I am so thankful I found the most basic of all sports. :-) So whether you are young or old, new or an old pro, it's never to late to get started! Throw on your sneaks, head out for a run, and then come back and read the blog. I hope you enjoy it!

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TOP TEN SIMILARITIES BETWEEN RUNNING AND BEING A PARENT10.) It forces you to get up at unspeakable hours.

9.) It introduces you to a completely new group of people that you wouldn't have otherwise met.

8.) It gives you this weird, tingly high. Occasionally. 7.) Some days, it's hard as hell.

6.) It gives you something else to focus on outside of your own little myopic world.

5.) When you tell others about your crazy tales, they look at you with a mixture of fear, awe, and horror.

4.) You realize you are capable of withstanding much more than you ever thought possible.

3.) It gives you a sense of purpose.

2.) It forces you to live in the moment. This can be very challenging - and freeing - all at the same time.

And the difference between the Summerlin Half-Marathon and the Zappos Half-Marathon in December? Two completely different races, with different outcomes, and different sentiments. It was like night and day.

Literally.

Saturday went smashingly well. So well, I'm still grinning ear to ear. Considering my level of terror on Friday night as I watched the wind whip through the palm trees, I really thought the race was going to bring yet one more unmitigated disaster. I gave serious consideration to throwing myself down a flight of stairs (gently) and claiming an injury to get out of running. Brian was so concerned with my attitude that he dialed up every single cheesy sports movie clip with an inspirational speech to fire me up. I grimly watched "Miracle" and "Every Given Sunday" (as Brian encouraged me to "fight and die for that last inch") as I twisted my hands feverishly. Scotty, ever oblivious to the potential of losing his mother the next day, happily noshed on breadsticks and played with his monster trucks. So young, so naive. So lucky.

But all of my fears proved to be unfounded. Yes, there was a light rain as the race started early Saturday morning, but there was no wind. The crushing crowd of 44,000 from the December race was replaced with a ridiculously polite crowd of only 600. Tree-lined streets of Summerlin displaced the glaring neon from the Strip lights, and a soft blanket of grey covered the sky. It was cozy, familiar, and clean. Honestly, it felt like home-field advantage.

One of the most pervasive feelings from the December half-marathon was the profound sense of loneliness running a crowd so big. To top it off, I was literally surrounding by the weird (the blue man), the subverse (the barefoot guy), the sublime (the naked dude.) And while I occasionally will bemoan the snootiness and banality of Summerlin from time to time, I have to admit, it was refreshing to not be running surrounded by people draped in tutus and Christmas lights. Everyone looked normal, acted like runners, and even better - I knew some of them! I drove with my friend Andrea. We immediately ran into Jodi from Junior League, then Tonya and Reed from Boot Camp. As we all entered our corrals, I bumped into my friend Sandy's next door neighbor, Patty. It was like a meet-and-greet at 6:55am in the parking lot of the JW Marriott. And I was so thankful.

My only goal for this race was to have a better experience than December. I would say by 7:15, I had accomplished that. The lovely female voice on "Map My Run" came through as I hit mile 1 with a nice report: "You have completed one mile. Time: 9:22. Pace: 9:22" and I about jumped for joy. 9:22? Sweet! I slowed down, since I didn't want to burn out, but my legs felt sensational.

By mile 3, I discovered another friendly face: Greg from Boot Camp. It was his first-ever half-marathon and while we didn't talk to each other, we grinned brightly and waved. He and I ran by each other for several miles until mile 7 when the course went quickly downhill. And by downhill, I mean the best kind of downhill - the sloping kind. Mile 8 was amazing, and that Florence and the Machine song "Shake it Out" came on just as I looked at the low-hanging clouds over Red Rock. It was one of those "I am so happy to be alive and I feel so blessed" kind of moments - which, of course, made me start crying. But, as I have learned, there is no crying in running and I quickly choked back any emotion to focus on the task ahead.

Andrea found me at mile 9 and we ran together for two miles. She encouraged me to pass her, so I did, and at mile 11, I almost tripped over both feet when on the side of the road I noticed Krista and Jill, both fellow Boot Campers and my running partner from St. Patrick's Day, standing there with a giant sign, screaming for me. My name was even on their sign! It was honestly one of the nicest gestures of my life. I couldn't believe they had come to cheer us on.

From there, I don't remember the last 2.1 miles, I just remember crossing the finish line and running into the arms of both Boot Camp trainers (and seriously amazing athletes in their own right), Kerry and Reinier. I've never felt more supported. And - it gets better - out of nowhere, Brian and Scotty magically appeared. I actually got to have one of those "only-in-my-dreams" moment when I stood at the finish line with my medal on, kissing my child, hugging my husband, and grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.

I loved every minute of it.

My official time, posted today, was 2:12:38. It's not a great time if you are a serious runner, but for me, I am deliriously happy with it. It is a 21-minute improvement on my December time, and the door remains open for continued improvement.

With that, I feel like I shook that nasty monkey from the December marathon off my back for good. There was a lot of self-doubt going into this run, and I am so, so, so happy I was able to push past it.

At breakfast after the race, I regaled Brian with details from the race. In between bites and gulps, I told him with a wink, "You know...I still had energy left when I finished. I could have kept running. I could have gone -" long, dramatic pause "- farther."

Blogging, just like everything else, was preempted by other crap. I had the best of intentions of dedicating this week to the Summerlin half but life took over and squashed my plans. I had written out the entries in my head - My Lemur Diet, Out of the Darkness, and then today's entry, but instead of being transcribed onto my computer, it looks like they will live in my head for a little longer. Darn life. Actually, I should say, darn annual report, but only about 30% of my viewing audience would understand what that means.

(and I hope you 30% just uttered a collective groan on my behalf. I curse you, annual report!)

Anyways, I planned to write about why I run today, since in the days before any race (whether it's a half marathon or a 5K), I find myself asking, "Why am I doing this to myself?!" And trust me, that doubt runs deep. I didn't go out with friends on Wednesday night due to the race on Saturday. I've been eating like a lemur (oh, that would make so much more sense to you if I had been able to blog on Wednesday!) for two months now. Waking up at 5:30 and running in the dark is old hat by now (again, Thursday entry would have really expounded on this, complete with Keith Morrison's voice always in the back of my head as I run through the darkness and visualize my inevitable kidnapping...."She was a wife, a mother, and a new runner. Little did Kimberly know that the morning she set out to complete five miles, her life would take a dramatically different route...") and besides, the time change has literally allowed me to run with the sun. I feel a bit like an old vampire, waking up to a new day. It's delicious though blinding.

Vampires and Dateline NBC aside, running a sport for crazy people. That's what I've come up with. It does not make any sense unless it's the zombie apocalypse and you are running for food/medical supplies, or wolves are chasing you (zombie apocalypse not withstanding.) The idea of running 13.1 miles tomorrow makes me shiver, and it's not just because the HIGH is 55 (WTH???), complete with RAIN and HIGH WINDS (OMG I just threw up); it's because I really don't want to have a repeat of December's half-marathon disaster. (oh please please please don't let me need a medic).

Thankfully, our very smart and very experience running coach from last fall asked all of us on the team to write a little essay about why we run. Like a true dork, I loved this idea. Writing? Yes, please! So I typed up a few paragraphs for her and emailed it away. She responded and asked if she could share my essay with the rest of the team. I said sure, why not. I got a lot of really nice feedback, and as I started to have doubts about this Saturday's race, I re-read my email. What I wrote still stands true and I thought I would share it with you as well.

I cried when I wrote it and cried again reading it over. But it's how I feel and it gives me energy and motivation for tomorrow to go kick some serious half-marathon butt.

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Per Melissa's instructions, here is the reason I am running the Vegas 1/2 marathon this year. On May 6, 2011, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. He told me about the diagnosis on May 18. By May 26, they had determined that it had spread to his liver. He began chemo on June 6, and I flew out to see him on June 7. (My parents live in Indiana). My sister (who lives in MN) and I left on June 12 and on June 13, he was hospitalized. He died from liver failure on June 16. He was one week short of his 61st birthday.

My dad was a gentle, kind man who loved his family. He never hurt anyone, and to have him taken from us so early - and so quickly - absolutely destroyed me. I spent most of July crying. In August, I stopped crying and started running. I figured out that I couldn't cry if I was running, because it was impossible to breathe. So I ran as much as I could to stop crying.

In late August, a friend mentioned Boot Camp to me and I went to my first-ever Hill Day. It was the perfect distraction to my grief, since for the first time since my dad got sick, I didn't think about it. I had to concentrate 100% on not passing out/throwing up during the work out. The marathon team started in early September, and despite the fact I had never run more than 3 miles at a time, I winged it and signed up. I figured if Hill Day is a good distraction and running stops me from crying, than marathon training would be the best of both worlds.

So that's my reason for signing up for the marathon. I'm not doing it to honor my dad necessarily, since he was not a runner, but I'm doing it to give meaning to his life. I want to challenge myself and live my life to its fullest, something I realized after he passed.

Let's start at the beginning; they've never been pretty. They are a ridiculously large size 10 for my meager height of only 5'6". My toes are more like fingers, with multiple, knobby knuckles (tuckles?). And the heels have been granted no favors, living in this dry, dry desert of ours. It's not uncommon for at least one heel to crack mid-July due to heat, dryness, and ill-fitting flip-flops.

So before running began, I was working with maybe a 3 out of 10, in terms of beauty. I can assure you, no one has ever told me I have pretty feet. But after a miserable pregnancy that pushed my dogs to a whooping size 10.5, shoe shopping is akin to going to the dentist. And I HATE the dentist.

Add running in, and well, we have a hot mess on our hands, just south of my ankles.

It all started after the St. Patrick's Day race. I had the bright idea to trim my toenails the night before the race, due to my serious phobia of losing a nail. Alas, I trimmed them too short. After 7.1 miles of of toe-slamming in the fronts of my shoes, I came home to find large, pink, fluid-filled blisters on the fronts of each toe. Gross and painful. And rather unsightly.

The St. Patrick's Day race produced more than a lot of ugly toes; it also spelled the death of my first-ever pair of real running shoes. They say you should put no more than 500 miles on a pair, and by mid-March, my shoes were ready to say good-bye. In addition to being caked in red mud, the mesh on the front was ripping and the support was no longer there. With a heavy heart, Brian and I dropped my shoes in the garbage in the laundry room and stood silent for a moment. It was a fitting end to a great pair of shoes.

I purchased another pair quickly, but my feet must have been swollen the day I bought them, since they were way too large for me. I only wore them three times, but each time, I literally felt like I was wearing over-sized clown shoes that shook with each step. Cue the trip back to the shoe store, and enter in pair of shoes #3.

(thankfully, most good running stores offer a 10- or 30-day money back/exchange guarantee with the purchase of new shoes. Thank you, Nice Man at Performance Footwear on the corner of Ft. Apache and Sahara Ave for being so patient with me, my feet, and my talkative child.)

The latest pair is a winner, except I decided to "cool-it-up" by purchasing a pair of what I thought were stealth black running socks. I imagined myself something of a ninja runner. After my eight-mile run two weeks ago, I realized my ninja socks had a faulty seam on the left foot, which pressed against my little toe for eight agonizing miles. Never one to admit defeat, I wore the socks again this past weekend for a 10.5 mile run, telling myself it was user error. If I just wiggle the seam around a little to the right, just jostled the sock to the left, and only ran on the inside part of my foot, the socks are not a problem.

Fail.

So now the left side of my foot, starting with my baby toe, was mostly numb for two days afterwards. I did yet another run this morning (only five miles) with thicker socks, and there was no problem.

Stupid ninja socks.

However, I am still left with a swollen purple toe to match my toe-front pink blisters.

Ick.

Let's not even get started on my lack-of a pedicure. And quite frankly, I'm not going to let anyone touch my feet until after the Summerlin half marathon, out of fear of another toe-saster-blister-gate incident.

I'm planning to wear open-toe sandals tomorrow night to a function, and at this point, I don't care what my feet look like. I could pretty-it up and say my ugly feet are like battle scars and I should show them off proudly, but let's face it, they are just simply ugly feet.

And I'm okay with that.

The Summerlin Half-Marathon is this Saturday, April 14th. In honor of the race, each blog entry this week will be dedicated to running. Happy reading!

I've been a child of the 702 for over ten years, so very little about this city surprises me. We're used to slot machines at the grocery store, mayors who love martinis, and that silly "Crazy Girls" billboard that has been running for like, 20 years. Las Vegas is a great, fun, chill city. It's a little crazy, a little suburban, a little outdoorsy - it's really anything you want it to be.

But on Saturday, both Brian and I witnessed an all-time first.

Our St. Patrick's Day definitely varied all over the map and ended with a bang.

It started with a half-marathon relay out at Hoover Dam. My friend Jill from boot camp asked me to run with her, and I jumped at the chance. So we woke up at 5:30am, donned some green shirts, and ran through the same tunnels used by railway workers to build the Dam. She took the six mile leg, I finished with seven-point-one miles. It was historic, it was breathtaking, and it was a fantastic way to start the day.

After racing home, I took a quick shower and Brian and I were off to a pre-season Cubs game at Cashman Field. The giant pretzel and beer I consumed never tasted better, especially since I was still picking dirt out of my eyelashes. (let's not even talk about my running shoes or favorite socks - it was a very messy, windy run). We watched a really exciting game with friends Crystal and Kyle (celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary), and then headed to East Fremont for some St. Paddy's action. Crystal and Kyle had dinner plans for their anniversary, so Brian and I went solo to Insert Coins.

The name is exactly how it sounds - not slot machines, but vintage video games. You can rent a booth or kick it old-school, like we did, and stand at the machines. Since I hate video games and are terrible at them, I tried to do my best Elizabeth Shue-circa-1985 impression and cheer on my man while he played Galaga. I'm sure I just looked like a bored wife with a Cubs backpack leaning against the wall. Either way, Brian set the second high score and we both giggled as he typed in fake initials ("BAD").

From there, we raced through the rain to Lo Thai, this amazing Thai restaurant that gets great reviews. It was totally worth it, too - nothing says "Happy St. Patrick's Day" like a fantastic bowl of pad thai. I thought Brian was going to slam his head against the table when after the waiter asked for my level of heat, on a scale of one to five, and I replied, "One point five, please." What? I'm nothing if not specific.

With lots of yummy food in our bellies, we headed over for the real St. Patrick's Day party - to meet up with some friends at Henessey's. The place was packed, but they had a giant room set up in the back dedicated to beer pong. I could barely contain my glee. I love beer pong. I only wish I played more in college, but it was always hard to get on a table. I don't care about the drinking part of it - I just really enjoy throwing ping-pong balls into Silo cups. Maybe I'll get Scotty started now - that would be a good afternoon activity. It's a fun game and might improve his fine motor skills or something. And just imagine his skill level in college...

Anyways, this is where the story takes a weird turn. As we settled in the back, I noticed a girl standing towards the front of the room. Now remember, it's St. Patrick's Day on Fremont Street in Las Vegas. You are bound to see weird things. But I did a double take when I saw her, and even with my carb-ladden, beer-soaked brain, I knew something was off. Her back was turned to me, and she was wearing tiny little boy shorts, fishnet stockings, really tall black heels...and that's it. She had long hair, but I couldn't see anything on top except skin. Very exposed, very naked skin.

This is just a regular establishment - just a normal restaurant/bar that you would find in any city. (I think you might, since it's a chain). Brian actually eats lunch here on the weekdays quite often. So what was up with Naked Girl?

When she finally turned around, I realized what was going on.

Body paint.

Someone had painted on a white-corsetted-looking-thing on her torso and chest with the Jameson logo on it. It looked professional - amateurs need not apply - but that was all she had on. Just...paint.

Shocking, to say the least.

It was one of those moments of "Oh God...oh wow...seriously? Really?...just how is that paint staying on? And what's keeping...them...up?"

Fascinating, to say the least.

I'm sure my jaw dropped, as did Brian's. Every guy in the crowd was swiveling to gawk at Naked girl when we realized she had a friend - except instead of white paint, this girl was "wearing" a red corset with the Jameson logo on it.

I give the good people as Jameson Whiskey an A+ for creating such a memorable marketing campaign. This was something none of us were ever going to forget.

The Jameson girls expertly wove through the crowd, posing for pictures, smiling, and passing out shots. They had two more friends, in teeny-tiny dresses with them, passing out the drinks and grinning and giggling. These women knew exactly what they were doing.

And then, inexplicably, they decided to play beer pong.

Guess who got bumped?

I slumped in my chair and pouted. I think I muttered to Brian, "How many miles do you think they run everyday?" but he was still staring so intently at them I don't think he heard me. (I'm pretty sure he stopped blinking for a solid five minutes). I can't believe me, girl in the blue sweatshirt that smelled like Thai food, lost her beer pong table to topless women passing out shots of free whiskey. The indecency of it all.

But in the end, I will admit, they were good. They beat the boys (and instead of beer, they used - what else? - Jameson whiskey) and managed to not fall over, vomit, or lose their paint. They actually ate food, too, and every time I looked over, one of them was stuffing french fries in her face. I was impressed, in a "I'm not sure I'm really witnessing this or hallucinating" kind of way.

So there you go. Our very Vegas St. Patrick's Day. Full of historic tunnels, baseball, Galaga, Thai food, and body paint. In a city that some claim lacks culture, I'm going to have to disagree. It's got a charm all its own.

Yes, I will admit it. I have not been running very much lately. Despite the fact the Summerlin half marathon is creeping up quickly, I've been totally slacking on the mileage front.

In an effort to ascertain what the problem is, I reviewed the calendar from the last few months. This is what I came up with:

Dec 4: Vegas 1/2 marathonDec 5-10: recover from 1/2 marathon. Get quoted by local media about race chaos. Inexplicably use the word "bowels" when talking with reporter. Dec 10: the start of the Illness that Destroyed Multiple Christmas Parties (it's okay, Scotty...I forgive you. Kind of). Dec 19 -25: Week before Christmas. No boot camp. Who wants to run when there are Christmas cookies to eat?? nom-nom-nom. Dec 26 - Jan 2: Half-ass it at the gym. So bored by the lack of boot camp I half-heartedly climbed on a treadmill. For like, 20 minutes. Barely broke a sweat. Didn't pick up a weight. Jan 2-6: Boot camp starts on the 7th! Gonna sleep in now to prepare for the those early morningsJan 7: Brian informs me he has court early every day except Wednesday the 11th. I am on Bear-duty in the morning. No boot camp for Kim. Jan 11: BOOT CAMP!!Jan 12: Wake up with The Sinus Infection That Won't Die. Jan 22: Run for the first time in ten days. Three miles. Jan 22: Brian informs me he has court every day except Monday and Tuesday (23rd & 24th) Jan 23: BOOT CAMP!Jan 24: BOOT CAMP! Hill DAY! Happy KIM!!!!!!!!!!!Jan 25: Run 4 miles. We're on track, baby!Jan 28: Run 3 miles. Feeling great!Jan 29: ExhaustedJan 29: Brian tells me he has court everyday except Monday and Tuesday. Sweet. More Boot Camp. Will push through. Jan 30: Alarm doesn't go off; I sleep through Boot CampJan 31: I just completely, intentionally, and willfully did not go to Hill Day. Stayed up too late watching "The Bachelor." Exhausted from all other parts of life. Tired. Grumpy. Feb 1: Run 4 miles. Almost die. Catch Scotty's cold and am out for another four days.

There you have it, folks. The last two months of my life. I am shocked that it is already February. I am also shocked and scared at my complete and total lack of motivation. When I look back at September and October, I think to myself, "How the hell was I logging 8-12 mile runs? Where was that energy coming from?" Now, just a mere three miles is enough for me to break out into a cold, uncomfortable sweat. Not to mention, no one in our house can manage to stay healthy for more than a 10-day period of time. I should start dispensing antibiotics with the daily vitamin.

My diet has been horrible. As described last week, my go-to coping skill when stressed is to bake. I don't know why, perhaps it just part of my Midwestern genetics. But if there is a tray of brownies in the oven or cupcakes cooling on the counter, for whatever reason, life feels a bit more manageable. The problem is I'm not giving the sweets away as fast as I should; a Rice Krispie treat here, a brownie (or 12) there...and it's all adding up.

I'm up six pounds. This is on top of the post-Christmas five pound weight gain, putting me squarely a full 11 (gulp) pounds up from early December.

All I can think is, "Really? Really? Is the slope that slippery?"

The answer is yes.

I remember reading somewhere that in order to gain weight for the movie "Monster," Charlize Theron ate cheeseburgers, brownies, drank red wine and stopped exercising. She was like, "Yeah, the weight totally piled on." The only difference between Ms. Theron and myself is that I eat that diet with the expectation of losing weight.

Time to get a grip, Kim.

I spent a good portion of the weekend really, really mad. Mad at the Universe. Mad that I gain weight quickly. Mad that I don't have a lightening fast metabolism and mad that exercising is always a chore. Always. Mad that I have to fight for the chance to exercise. Mad that when the rubber hits the road, Brian's job wins over Boot Camp. (I never said I was being rational). Mad that I can't seem to find a good middle ground between my weight and my diet. And mad that I have to run freakin' 13.1 miles in less than three months, when my motivation is zero and I can't seem to shake this head cold.

I got myself so worked up about this unexplained weight gain I did what every thirty-something married woman does when she puts on more than five pounds: I decided I must be pregnant.

Three minutes and one little test later (and a lot of horrified looks from Brian), it was confirmed. I was, in fact, not with child.

I told Brian, "I guess I'm just fat with a head cold."

The look of fear in his eyes kept him from opening his mouth. He simply handed me a tissue and patted my leg sympathetically.

Wise man.

By last night, I pulled myself together. I laid out my workout clothes and promised myself I was going to get up at 5:30 to run. Brian has to be in early every morning this week except Thursday and Friday. Despite his schedule, I still can exercise; I just need to be done and out of the shower by 6:30am. If I was really motivated, I could do it.

And when the alarm went off this morning, the day still dark and everyone in our household silent, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

And then I started swearing. Like, loudly.

I swore all the way to the closet. I swore with each piece of clothing I angrily shoved on my body: pants, tall socks, shirt, warmer shirt, both gloves, ear muffs. Shoes had a whole bunch of expletives attached to them as I tied my laces. Don't even get me started about what I said when I brushed my teeth and popped in the contacts. I swore all the way down the stairs, kicking, muttering, pouting.

I swore through the first two miles. And the last two miles.

But by the time I climbed back up the stairs, untied my shoes, and started the shower (as my darling husband snoozed on, blissfully warm in bed), I stopped cursing. Finally. And I accepted the fact that as long as I don't want to weigh 200 pounds, I have to - have to, have to, have to- do what I don't want to do. I have to put the Chardonnay and Cinnamon Bears down. I need to pick up the shoes.

I need to fight for this.

And with that, I'm restarting my re-start. I'm trying again. This morning's run proved that I can do it. Getting out of bed is 50% of the battle. Even if I can't get to boot camp, I still can do something for myself. I just need to go to bed really, really early the night before.

But it's worth it. Really.

The Summerlin Half-Marathon is 68 days away and I am desperately working on my bad attitude.

Running really is like child birth. After the disaster that was Dec 4, I moaned, complained, and limped around for a while. And then, after licking my psychic wounds for a few weeks, time took on this magical quality and my memory of the event slowly altered. With a few good re-tellings of the tale, the abomination became anectdotal; after all, how many people can claim they almost pooped on the Strip in a crowd of 44,000?

(If you are curious about our plans to expand our family, please know that labor and delivery was the best part of my pregnancy experience, ironically enough. After twelve long weeks of bed rest, seven trips to the hospital, and then the subsequent horror that was CatheterGate, I'll take L&D any day over those winners. So, yeah, no plans right now for a sibling for the Bear; he may flying solo for a long, long time to come. Sixteen days with a catheter would make anyone gun-shy.)

Okay, enough about pooping and child birth. Back to the topic at hand...

...I'm happy to report I've signed up for the Summerlin 1/2 Marathon that kicks off on April 14!

It's a much smaller race than the Rock-n-Roll one, and to the best of my knowledge, it not at night. (thank goodness!) I am not anticipating running next to a million Elvises, people wrapped in Christmas lights, or naked people, but it's Vegas so you never know. And I'm starting to learn that people who run in these races have a very quirky sense of humor. Like, running in tutus is fun. Huh?

What's even cooler than jumping on the marathon-train again is the amazing amount of interest this has generated. I posted it on my FB page, and within a day, several people confirmed they would also like to run, and there's a whole long list of "maybe's" (DEANA! NATALIE! JEN WHIIIIIIIITE!) I am thrilled and excited to see so many people taking an interest in it, and most of all, I want to encourage any of them reading this now to consider writing for the blog. I'd love to hear about your experiences as you start to train, and what things deep inside come to the surface (and I'm not talking about digestive issues). Running is so much more than putting one foot in front of the other; it's one part therapy, one part endurance, and a whole lot of mental toughness. It's quite a ride, from beginning to end, and I'm excited to see what the next few months bring.

And speaking of childbirth, after waxing poetic about the marathon for the entire month of December, I spent far too much time behind the computer than outside or on the treadmill. I finally jumped back on this past Sunday to do four miles and OW! Talking about running is a lot easier than actually doing it. The soreness in my legs and lower back was a friendly reminder to make sure I put my money where my mouth is, and be consistent. Needless to say, I've already dusted off my training guide from last fall and am ready to get started. Again.

The Summerlin 1/2 Marathon is 98 days away, and I'm starting this second round of training in good spirits will all ten toenails still in tact. Let's hope both continue until April 14th!